Narcissus
by Progenitus
Summary: She would prove that frail flowers grew stronger by throwing themselves into the scorching sun: she will kill the charming Rogue. But frail flowers also grew wild hearts that gave itself away too readily. And then? Love, and cold despair. [AG]
1. The Frail Flower

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 1 - The Frail Flower**

The young woman walked through the busy streets of Corus with the grace of a leopard. Her coal black hair cascaded in large waves, softening her piercing green eyes in beguiling manner. She walked with a quiet smile, one that reminded one of the strange smiles a cat displays when it is about to slip its paw into a milk jar. She was wrapped in a rag for a shawl, covering most of the beige robe that she wore—but even rags could not hide the long legs and the swaying waist. Oh, this one was beautiful, all right: the kind that coyly stopped your heart and left you there. Even flirty boys along the street simple eyed her with a hunger that is surprisingly common in youth and poverty.

Sharon walked on, thrusting her finely sculptured nose (no truer sign of blue blood) in the air and her delicate chin forward. She tossed her hair back in a clean, haughty flick of the wrist and narrowed her eyes as she saw the door in the distance, halting suddenly. Those who loitered about scattered as if she turned into a beast. Street savvy was necessary, you see, in these parts, and they would bet their few coins that even a beast would cower and run if stared with those frosted eyes—they belonged to a killer.

She was a killer. And a damn good one at that.

Too bad her own family would not acknowledge that. After all, simply being _good_ was nowhere near enough to be accepted as a member of the L'Morae. That name spoke of nightmares and blood and tears from vagabonds to kings. That name spoke of sudden, violent deaths that were as certain as the sun rising. The name spoke of gold and wine and sharp steel stained by blood, even their own kin's. After all, only the finest of assassins were to live, if their name was to be kept.

And Sharon Soon-To-Be-L'Morae, was here to prove this girl with flimsy wrists, a thin neck, and an embarrassing habit of wearing narcissus flowers in her hair when she was a girl of five—this woman here, was the best. The Best would only slay the Best, naturally, and her target was the King of Thieves.

Kill George Cooper, and she would be treated as a true descendant of Osidan L'Morae.

Nothing could stop her. She was not the best fighter, she knew, but she also knew from a very young age that the best fighter did not always win: she had her wits and her beauty, both of which could dazzle and blind. Her wits would gain her speed, speed of hand and mind, while her beauty gave her time to use her wits.

She would become the best, if only because the fierceness blazing in her eyes.

* * *

Author's Note: Cover art is William McGregor Paxton's _Girl Combing Her Hair_.


	2. The Smiling Rogue

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 2 - The Smiling Rogue**

Dusk found the streets uncommonly empty and a beautiful woman striding into a small inn of no particular feature.

Information networks were not to be scoffed at: even assassins (especially good assassins) needed full information. Her favorite agent, the lad of nineteen with crooked teeth and a sweet, adoring smile, had vouched his life for the accuracy of this piece of information: where the Rogue lived. The beauty smiled at the memory of the boy, so skilled with listening yet so awkward at speaking, who had tried to propose to her the fourth time so far. She liked him—liked him enough to refuse his proposal. Attachment was a tricky thing, easily slipping out of your fingers and cutting either your or his throat.

Quietly slipping upstairs, she frowned at the many closed doors that presented themselves to her. Each one looked very much like all the other in the dim lighting, and the booming laughter and insults from downstairs covered all other sounds. Biting her lips, she scanned the doors for signs of damage: the one on the far left seemed to have the most dents and dagger marks on it. She straightened her back, stiffed her shoulders and looked every bit the girl who was prepared to fight and too taut to move quickly.

She pushed the door and it creaked open.

Not unexpectedly, a dagger was on her neck before her eyes could adjust to the light inside.

"Hav'n't yer ma taught ya to knock?" a voice growled.

"Oh, she did, but I think I forgot later on," she replied coolly, controlling the impulse to fight back.

"Might be high time ya went over ya lessons."

"But she's not there to teach me anymore."

A pause, and "So get a man who'll teach ya."

"I am doing that right now."

The voice chuckled, "And I thought I'd be free of marriage proposals for a time bein'."

"I don't want a husband out of you—I want a job."

"How old are ya, lass?"

She lowered her head, jerking up once the fine skin on her throat broke a little, feigning hesitation and uncertainty. "Twenty summer and winters." And before he asked again, she quickly added, "I was disowned a while ago because the son of a noble told my idiot of a father that I slept with him, hoping that I'd marry him. I want revenge."

The dagger was gone from her neck, but not yet his hand. She touched her neck gingerly and stared into green-hazel eyes, covered slightly by mussed brown hair.

"Why'd ya think I'd take ya in?"

"I'll make a good rogue. I can fight, and I'm pretty." She slipped out a dagger from the fabric on her stomach and threw it. It hit the oak window framed, quivered slightly, and hummed happily as George eyed it with a cocked eyebrow.

"I see."

Silence again while he pulled the dagger out.

"Well consider yerself in, lassie. But this is a hard life ya chose: hunted by law, surviving on others, risking yer neck." Here he gave her his trademark mischievous smile, "But I see you have no problem with at least the last part."

She smiled beautifully, beaming at him with the innocence and confidence of youth, while she smiled even more beautifully inwards, with the smug satisfaction of a jobs well started. For you see, Sharon was still quite oblivious to what the Rogue's smile can do.


	3. The Prince in Disguise

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 3 - The Prince in Disguise**

Sharon tapped her fingers against the beer-stained table of the Dancing Dove. She was giving off all the right signals, no? Hair was let loose without adornments; frown seemed to be carved out of stone; dress decent enough to be approved of a nun; fingers tapping loud enough to be heard from the next table. So why was this odd man still drooling over her and babbling like a drunk?

Oh, he _was_ a drunk. And Sharon hated drunks—they were so hard to predict sometimes, despite the stereotype. Some cried when they were drunk, some laughed; some yelled and some slept; some couldn't tell their own head from the wall, and some gave the most insightful remarks of their lives.

The drunk muttered something and was extending a hand towards Sharon, when a hand came from somewhere unexpectedly and knocked the poor man down. Genuinely surprised for a change, Sharon turned around and saw her King.

George smiled his usual smile, winked, and walked away, leaving Sharon with a strange, rising feel in her stomach. She was very familiar with self-consciousness—that is, familiar with the knowledge that she was attracting attention; yet this, this _thing_ of feeling delicate and vulnerable was not something that she dealt with everyday.

It was peculiar, wasn't it, that all these strange feelings began to breed and grow within her whenever the Rogue smiled. It was a very handsome sort of smile, to be sure, but Sharon had waved off much more handsome smiles before—no, it was the warmth in the smiles. Warmth, which in itself was as unfamiliar as the sense of vulnerability to Sharon, whose twenty years are filled with anything but warmth. It was hard to be warm, you know, when survival was based on cruelty and cold, frigid hearts.

Sharon sat in her chair rigidly, her eyes fixed on the laughing figure of George. He was very amused by something one of his friends said. Sharon narrowed her eyes at the sight of this particular friend: this girl, with her copper hair and insultingly violet eyes was strange figure alright, in a court where men were flippant and the women more than glad to bare some cleavage. Strange, for she dressed herself in the manner of a boy.

Her instinct told her that this was a dangerous girl though for what, she did not know.

The other strange friend was less of a threat. Indeed, he was flirting with every girl in the room, winking his handsomely blue eyes. He almost worked systematically, starting from a corner and working his way through. It would take a while before he got to Sharon though, since he was successful in most cases. The King's Court wasn't exactly known for its modest and prudent women.

While she was speculating, the lass-turned-lad had said something to George that led them up the stairs and presumably into his chamber. When Sharon realized this, she speedily slithered her way to George's chamber, peeking through the keyhole and fighting George's Sight.

"What is it lass," George had asked, a note of concern in his voice that Sharon had never heard before.

The stockier figure in the room had her back against Sharon, but the copper hair was still visible. She slumped a little and began hesitatingly, "It's Roger. Coram says he used a spell on me to tell him—tell him my secret, but he failed. He said I'm…I'm protected by the Gods. That's silly, right?"

The note of concern was replaced by a barely-there tone of affection now, "Well Alanna, you're the educated noble here. Personally, this rogue thinks the old soldier is right. Have you told Jonny?"

Alanna shook her head. "No, Jon believes his cousin," she mumbled.

"Myles?"

"I'm afraid that he'd guess that I'm a girl."

"From the Sweating Sickness, he prob'ly already knows."

"Yes, but I can't take any risk."

There Sharon quietly slipped away, fearing the Sight betraying of her presence. Still, this little conversation proved to be more than worth the risk—Jonny the merchant's son, huh? She never fancied that the prince would be quite as flirtatious, nor his favorite squire such a depressed little thing, but then again, life was just full of surprises, no?


	4. The Laughing Coquette

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 4 - The Laughing Coquette**

Dealing with the King was not as easy as it sounds. One did not simply save the King from a tight situation—the oldest trick in the book—and earn his complete trust. Sharon knew that because she had tried it. She had saved him from Claw, a dangerous man with a hideously scarred face and a fierce thirst for vengeance: George, in becoming King, had killed his brother. Now while brotherly love was not quite strong between Claw and his brother, it was a matter of pride. It was a dangerous and fun thing to do, toying with Claw and finishing him off in a seemingly accidental thrust of the knife. Yet the King was just as wary of her as he was before, perhaps even more.

It was time to upgrade her trick book.

The thing was, though George was wary of everybody, he rarely showed it. In fact, the only thing that he did show often was his smile, which did not benefit Sharon in the least, because slowly, gaining his trust was becoming _personal_.

And the chance to do that came.

It was the afternoon of an ordinary day, as plain as it could be, with a sky that couldn't decide on being cloudy or not, a busy market, and thieves running everywhere. Sharon was strolling down the streets, enjoying both the admiring and fearful looks cast her way. She smiled: she had made quite a name for herself in such a short time—those who weren't blinded by her pouty lips and fresh cheeks knew her to be as cold-hearted as, well, perhaps nobody knew who or what could compare with her.

There was an extravagant carriage with the curtains drawn to avoid sunlight, heading for the castle. The carriage driver had a haughty look on his face, as he was the one going to meet the king and queen. It would be the ladies who were going to meet the eligible prince in the upcoming ball.

Oh, to be treated like a lady again—to have warm baths without intrusion, unnecessarily adorned frocks, heavy fans to hide your smile behind, doors pushed open for you to avoid tainting the neat white gloves. And do not forget the infatuated looks of kings and queens alike—even women adore a beautiful lady with her wits. Ah, Sharon would have growled like she did as a baby at the fine carriage. In this envious state, Sharon brewed up a plan—and a wonderful plan it was.

She crept into the carriage as it was travelling under the shades, and before the poor noble could let out a horrified scream, she slipped a knife across her neck and quietly ended her life. Switching into her forest green gown of silk, Sharon smiled—a smile of a child upon discovering a new fantastic toy. She adjusted the veil to cover her face, delicately leaving only her full red lips in view. The corpse, meanwhile, was degenerating slowly into a puddle, thanks to a very useful formula that transformed flesh into liquid.

"Hurry up to the palace!" she drawled to the driver.

Despite the rush, Sharon the lady still missed the daylight celebrations of Prince Jonathan's birthday—but no matter, the evening was where the highlight was, anyhow.

The palace page had directed her to a room, half stumbling as he tried to hide his glances at her mouth—her lips did leave plenty of room for the vivid imagination. In this room she quickly made her preparations.

A nice, hot bath was prepared, complete with a blushing maid scrubbing her back with the air of someone working in the temples (the poor girl probably did think Sharon as a goddess, with her exceptional beauty and staggering gravity). After the bath, some struggle with a tight corset and a rebellious underdress, she changed into an evening dress of a lush claret red, made of satin and trimmed with velvet. Her hair was done by herself, the aforementioned blushing maid in more awe at the grace of her movements. She yanked her hair up, grabbed pink and stuffed then in her hair as if by random: yet the result was far from messy—streams of silky hair flowed to her back and shoulders, some even snaking to her bosom, while the lustrous locks that were trapped by pins were in loops around her head, creating volume. Slipping into a pair of creamy doeskin gloves and matching boots, she twirled in front of the mirror and frowned. The maid quickly brought forth the accessories chest and laid in on the dressing table. Sharon frowned even more as she put on a necklace of amethyst, a ring of ruby, and clinking bracelets of soft gold.

This lady had horrible taste in necklaces.

Oh well, one cannot achieve perfection, it seemed. She was, however, mostly satisfied with her image.

And the ball went beautifully.

She entered with the showy grace of a woman of the world, charmed the men with her inviting smile and svelte wrist waving an Oriental fan. She then declared authority over the women by making every single one of them brimming with jealousy. It was, after all, quite a compliment to say that she was loathed by her kind. The Queen glared at this most imprudent woman with an appalling lack of shame, but could not do anything as both the King and Prince were infatuated with the young thing. The Queen was above the age of caring which way the King looked, but she was most concerned about her Jon: it was the worst nightmare of a mother to be replaced by another in her son's heart, and the goal of every wife. Therefore, it earned the Duke Roger quite some favor when the Queen found out that he was unaffected by her charms, engaging in the only conversation that night which did not involve excited praises of the new Lady or fugitive glances her way.

Still, she worried for her son.

Her son, however, was having the time of his life: not only was the new face in court a devastating beauty, but she also carried matching wits (or un-matching wits, most would argue). Her only fault was that she smiled at everybody the way she smiled at him, and it frustrated him a little to see her bestow her prize so easily and extensively. On the whole, though, she was the dream he was waiting for.

A dream that was not interrupted by her purring in his ear, "Your Highness," (she had this way of purring his title as if it was something very intimate and very, very suggestive), "May I have the honor to meet the squire of such a fine, handsome knight as yourself?"

Jon's knees gave a little tremble as he turned to look at her. Her eyes were laughing and her face was half covered by her fan—a gesture that usually spoke of modesty and shyness, but turned out to be rather bizarrely captivating.

"Certainly, my dear lady," he replied, not wanting to look amateur. Without pulling his eyes off the corner of her mouth that was uncovered by the fan, he told Gary, "Get Alan here—and remind him of his duty to be polite."

A few moments later, Gary dragged a most reluctant Alanna back with him. She was blushing furiously as she bowed to Sharon. A less perceptive one might have interpreted the behavior as timidity or perhaps bashfulness in front of such grandeur, but the clear eyes of Sharon saw that it was hostility, rather than admiration, that shone through.

"Alan of Trebond," Sharon smiled in her pouty way, which was famous now in the court. "Do you dance?" Despite the protests of the young Alan, both Jon and Gary pushed him into the dance, one fairly amused, and the other quite jealous.

Thus, Sharon flirted the whole night, enjoying herself entirely, basking in the sense of victory. Near the middle of the ball, Sharon had pledged tiredness and retired to her room, escorted by the Prince who insisted on "Jon." It was as important to withdraw early as it was to arrive late. Everything was just as planned.

Everything, that is, except the pair of eyes that watched her door close on the dreamy prince.


	5. The Diverse Morning Moods

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 5 - The Diverse Morning Moods**

The next morning, Sharon woke up to crisp linen and the scent of lavender, feeling exceptionally cheerful. Normally, she woke up somewhat grumpy and disoriented, for despite being a top assassin, she was still very much human. Today, however, proved to be something special. Indeed, Sharon felt very cheerful as she remembered her findings from yesterday.

What did she find? Oh, delicious blackmailing material: how the young prince rambles the lower quarters in disguise and tumbles with thieves and knacks. And just as a teeny, tiny side note—that girl-in-disguise was obviously infatuated with the prince, who was even more obviously in love with Sharon herself.

Oh, the glory and justice of the world.

Yet a few moments later, Sharon came to question that justice. For a man had come into her room, courteously waiting for her to be finished with washing her face with rosewater before demanding, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull you to the court and call you a scam for feigning to be Lady Delia."

Not to be put off her good mood just because of this little intrusion, Sharon pleasantly replied "Oh yes, that was her name, I believe, from the pretty little page's introduction last night. Didn't remember it that well—you see, we weren't on the best of terms. In fact, you might say she holds a grudge against me; or really, held."

The man (who had a very imposing sort of air around him, as if he was a king) cocked his eyebrow and invited her to continue.

"I'm not very acquainted with whatever it was that you were going to do with her, for if you know that I'm not this Lady Delia, then you must be awfully familiar with her, as the rest of those bloody fools didn't notice a thing. Then I give you this reason: whatever it is that she can do, I can do it better." She said it confidently, head slightly up and eyes slightly narrowed.

The Duke Roger smiled. "Ah, just what I have been _dying_ to hear, my good lady." Offering his arm to her, he deepened his smile, "Then shall we get on to business, then?"

—

Alanna gloomily trudged through the halls of the palace. The flame-haired youth did not share in a particular lady's amiable mood. In fact, she was feeling the opposite: it was very distressing to see one's master and secret love to be so head over heels over such a flirt.

Needless to say, Alanna did not enjoy the company of Lady Delia. But such drudgery was to be endured, in the name of chivalry and the such.

Damn chivalry sometimes, because sometimes, Alanna would like to get some chivalry herself. It wasn't easy, putting up a disguise as a boy when one was really a girl. A stubborn girl who was tough as a hippo's side, to be sure, but girls were always made of more sensitive material than guys anyway.

No matter. This morning, Alanna was on her way out of the castle and into the dirty, boisterous lower quarters again. It seemed somewhat odd, that thieves were the only company that she could keep these days and still maintain a sound, calm mind.

—

Jon, who missed Alanna barely several times in his travels across the palace, was not in a bad mood himself. Last night had really puffed up his sense of pride and how glorious he was. Not that he was so egoistic normally, but it was one thing to feel that one was the greatest thing in the world, but another to be told by a beautiful lady who had other knights trailing after her.

He was, actually, on a quest to find Alanna, the only female that he could confide to and ask for advice. It was never too safe with women, you see, for they were such a strange race of creatures: better ask what Alanna thought was the best way to capture the Lady Delia.

After spending quite some time in the palace without any success at finding the aforementioned girl, Jon spent a few moments in quite contemplation. After the few moments, he decided that perhaps he could put better use to his time actually trying out what worked and what didn't.

Not on the actual Lady Delia herself, of course. That would be simply boorish and ill-mannered of him. Why, he'd simply go to George's court and find some woman there to experiment with.

With this well-thought plan, Jon began his own journey to the lower city, where he was not a prince but a merchant's son. Who knows, perhaps he'd even find Alanna there.


	6. The Sad Mistake

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 6 - The Sad Mistake**

All it took, it seemed, was one mistake. One mistake to end an affair badly—one mistake to end a life badly, even; one mistake to wreck international relations and start long wars, and one mistake for Sharon to find herself in this position. What position? Why the position of being destroyed in her hopes and dreams.

It was all because of her collaboration with the Duke, and the mistake was her judgment. Being an assassin really did not help one develop a sense of human emotions and relationships, and that was where Sharon's judgment went wrong.

It happened like this:

Roger planned to usurp the throne. That was perfectly alright by Sharon's books, since she held the same opinion as her late father: that Roger was more fit as a king—he understood the whole business of ruling with fear, and fear was the only real way to ensure obedience. The problematic part was that the plan involved Alanna the Infatuated Squire and Jonathan the Blind Prince. (That is, Alanna the squire who was infatuated with Jon, and Jon the prince who was very blind to the said infatuating and the scheming of his dear, sweet Delia). Which meant that the plan sort of involved George, who would undoubtedly rush to Alanna's side if any harm came to her.

Sharon's plan was to stop George from rushing there. She tried to do that a number of ways: sending George away on false information of enemies (which didn't work); tempting him with lost treasures on faraway lands (which really didn't work); luring him with his feminine wiles and trapping him within a well-guarded cellar (which almost worked). People weren't really that smart when dealing with other people that they love, Sharon included. That was where she lost: she loved George, and George didn't love back: meaning she lost her smarts when he kept his.

In the end, she tried it like this:

"George!"

The called-for man looked up from the book he was reading and saw a very flustered-looking Sharon. He was actually pleasantly surprised to be diverted from his studying: book weren't really his thing. Yet the dazed look on Sharon's face was somewhat disconcerting, as Sharon rarely lost her cool.

"What's 'e matter, love?"

Sharon did wish that he would stop calling her that. It made her flustered for real. Or at least she wished that he would stop calling all other women that, but wishes were not granted every day. "I-I saw Alan kissing J-Jon!"

George frowned a little. It seemed very odd and silly that Sharon should be making such a big fuss over so little action—with her curves and looks, she probably was more acquainted with fooling around than he was, with all his years.

Then it struck him. Alan kissing Jon. Ahh, right: she was disguised as a male. It was hard to remember Alanna as a boy when he saw her so much as a woman, really. "Ye didn't appear ta me as the sort to be fussing over 'bit of boy love, Sharon love."

Sharon also wished that George would speak to her properly, without the slurs—like the way he spoke to Alanna. Perhaps she wasn't granted any wish was because the wish-granter deemed her too greedy, as she kept making all these wishes. While she was at it, she also strongly wished that George would behave a little more surprised that his love was kissing another guy. She would have said she had barged in on them naked, but that didn't seem to fit Alanna's stiff, no-fun character very well.

"Well, not really, but…you're alright with that?"

"Look here, lass," George finally got serious, seeing that Sharon was really distressed about it all. He was quite fond of the girl—she had her charms: not the ones that she usually grabbed men by, but a sort of uncultivated vulnerability that she showed sometimes. He was quite fond of the girl—fond enough, as it was, to not mislead the poor thing. "I kno' that yer worried 'bout ol' me, but really, a girl as youn' as Alanna can't really figure herself ou'. I'll wait—I'll wait as long as it takes for her ta get here, or ta get _somewhere_, nice an' happy." He smiled warmly and almost sadly, "Meanwhile, try ta get yourself a nice lad, won't ya love?"

And there, ended Sharon's purpose in it all.


	7. The Piercing Spears

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 7 - The Piercing Spears**

It took a heavier blow to make Sharon descend into depression and sulking. Sharon didn't know how to sulk—she had the instinct kicked and beaten out of her at a very young age. Instead of weeping and drowning in sorrow, as many other maidens of less steely resolve might have done, Sharon finally got to doing what she came here to do: as the saying goes, if you can't have it, destroy it.

Or at least die trying.

—

Alanna had really done her best: she had. She had tried on multiple occasions to hint to Jon (and later, bluntly pointing out) that Lady Delia was up to no good. She had tried to bring Jon to seeing the vile schemer in George's court (she had the name of Sharon there). She had tried to prove that Delia did _not_ love him with all her innocent, charming heart. She had tried discrediting Sharon by telling George that Sharon was Delia (George had laughed and told her Sharon had reported her doings a long time ago). She had done everything she could, but the elusive Sharon was not to be outdone by such an amateur plotter as Alanna. The only thing Alanna was well-versed with was _hiding_ things, not revealing them.

So when she found George talking cordially with Sharon, who smiled and winked at her, Alanna spun around and went downstairs of the Dancing Dove. It upset her that George should be this chummy with the very person she warned him against. She was more upset when she was found by Jonathan, whose eyes lighted up when he saw her for all the wrong reasons.

"Alan!" he called, "Mind if you read over my poetry? It's dedicated to Lady Delia!"

While Alanna was oblivious to the piercing looks that George gave her, Jon was as oblivious to the piercing looks that Alanna gave him, though hers were spears of disappointment and despair, whereas George's were of hope and patience.

He didn't have to hope long if Jon kept at it, but alas, Jon didn't, for Lady Delia disappeared before carrying out her part in Roger's plans.


	8. The Tragic Narcissus

**Narcissus**

**Chapter 8 - The Tragic Narcissus**

Once Sharon decided on something, her entire mind focused on how to get it done: it was a frame of mind that was carved into her from a young age. One afternoon, with the sun blazing and furiously trying to melt down everything, she found herself in the familiar position of standing in the middle of the street, gazing at the Dancing Dove ahead.

Not too far away, some girl with doll cheeks and a firm hand had thrown a bouquet—no doubt given by some hapless young fool, hopeless in his hoping of his affections returned. Or perhaps the youth was not so foolish after all, for it was a bunch of narcissus that flew out of the girl's dainty hands. Every flower seller knew that a narcissus spoke not of passion and romance, as the red rose, or even fidelity, as the ivy; no, the narcissus was of self-love and self-adoration. And Sharon, staring at the blinding white and yellow of the flowers, lying on the pavement helplessly, was struck by a moment of sentiment. She picked up the fallen bouquet and threw it high onto a tree.

"If your mistress will not have you, then at least you can avoid being trampled, and wither in peace."

She frowned after speaking, feeling that it somehow bore an omen for something to come, though of what she knew not. Such fatality was neither common nor wise of her, and she deemed herself a little sick of too much sun.

In such a state of mind, Sharon strode into the Dancing Dove. Her face was stonier than usual, and even the flower girls, who found a usually willing audience in Sharon (for she found flowers to be rather nice, being a young woman)—even the amiable Rosa, whom Sharon got along so well with, shrunk from her.

She walked upstairs and towards George's chamber. He, upon the opening of the door, flashed her a smile, and when he realized that it wasn't Alanna, whom he was expecting, he asked her what was the matter. In reply, she took out her knives and thrust them his way.

It was a mighty battle, to be sure, of not only knives but also wits and wills. George was not King of Thieves for nothing, but neither was Sharon as an L'Morae. In the end, perhaps Sharon would have won, if only she did not falter at the last second. She would have won, if she did not close her eyes, bite her lips, and shift her body so that her knife slid past her target, and the other knife that was aimed for her arm stuck into her heart.

And as she staggered to the floor, with a look of soft resignation and pained relief, she muttered, "So-so this is how it ends…"

"Shh," George bent down and told the dying woman with a strong voice and sorrow-laden eyes, "Don't say that it's come to an end. Tell yourself that it's alright. You're as strong as they come in—you're gonna walk away from here in a week an' find some pretty-eyed man to make me all spiteful, you are…"

But Sharon didn't answer. Perhaps this was the end she was planning to go all along—at least, at the very least, she exited the stage dramatically. If there were a heaven or hell that she went, she would approve of its tragic manner.

Then entered Alanna. She looked at George accusingly, like a wife who had caught her husband cheating. George only smiled sadly, taking the wobbly heap of a broken woman in his arms and told her "Lass, get yourself a nice brew of ale downstairs."

It would be too cruel to give even this moment to Alanna, and though he loved that feisty girl with all his heart, this woman here deserved his time for now. Alanna would understand—or, she would, when she grew older. Maybe then he'd tell her of the sacrifices his love had made; tell her how another woman died for them to be together, if they were.

This pale little narcissus, who found the love of herself to be too tedious, had been flung aside too often in her love. It is now time to bring her down to the ground and let her rest.


	9. Epilogue

**Narcissus**

**Epilogue**

Years and years later, when Alanna came home one day to find George sitting on their bed reading, she frowned slightly. George, being perceptive as always, asked her what was on her mind.

"Do-do you remember this Lady Delia, whom Jon had taken a fancy to before switching to the new Lady Delilah?"

George put down his book. "Ah, you mean Sharon. I was wondering if you'd ever come around to asking 'bout her."

Alanna's frown deepened. "Not that I'm questioning you, or that I'm demanding of anything that happened before we were together, but—she—what was between you two? And she—the way she died in your arms…"

"Come 'ere Alanna," George softly said. "She was a frail little bulb that grew to be a pretty flower, but ended up dying too soon because she thought she had found her sun, but didn't."

Seeing Alanna didn't quite understand, he began by asking, "Ever heard of the name of L'Morae?"

And so the tale of the narcissus is passed on, not forgotten.


End file.
